Where the Lost Things Are Read Free

brightly. She tapped the side of her pink leather sample case. “Karing Kate has a prototype wrinkle cream. It’s experimental.”
    Jack looked even more doubtful. “Doesn’t wrinkle cream get rid of wrinkles?”
    â€œNot this one,” said Darly. “It’s made for making ‘em. It’s sort of like a reverse mortgage. It’s for girls who want to look all goth and jaded. If it gets approved, we’ll call it Worldly Woman.”
    So first we finished the whiskey. And then we held our collective breath while J. D. Crowe on my squidphone tore into “Drown the Puppy” like a bushhog into a rose garden. The frantic, lonesome music made me feel like nothing mattered. I was a lonely old man, fading away, forgettable and forgotten. And, holding my breath so long like this, I was feeling like I might pass out. Everything looked strange. I was dwindling.
    The Worldly Woman wrinkling cream came with an applicator that looked as big as a shovel by the time Darly had finished laying a stripe on the porch. The stripe folded in on itself, and now it was a milky river—or a canyon full of mist. Jack dove in. Still holding our breath, the rest of us followed, anxious to get some air, or die trying. Somewhere nearby a crow had begun to caw.
    I fell, but only what seemed like a few feet before I hit ass-first with a thump on a patch of dirt. I looked around, gasping great gulps of air. Darly and Amara were on either side of me, looking shocked. Jack was already on his feet, desperately going through his pockets.
    â€œLost my Bugler!” he said. “Must have fallen out of my pocket as we passed through.”
    â€œLet’s hear it for Karing Kate, huh?” said Darly.
    We were in a field of bare clay studded with rocks the size of trash cans. The sky above was pale shade of yellow-orange, as if we were inside a gigantic birthday balloon. A few big birds circled high overhead.
    Jack was smiling in spite of the loss of his Bugler. His voice took on a celebratory tone. “We made it!” he said. “We’ve made history! We’re the first humans to pass from the universe to the alsoverse. “
    â€œDon’t be so sure,” said Darly. With both hands, she pointed toward the edge of the field where a gloomy man with a white goatee sat on one of the rocks. He was dressed like a Kentucky Colonel, in a gray cutaway frock coat and a string tie. He was rolling a cigarette from a pack of tobacco on his lap.
    â€œThat’s my Bugler!” Jack hurried toward him and we followed. The man glanced up as we approached, and when Jack saw his face he stopped in his tracks.
    â€œChandler! From Knowledge College.”
    â€œJack! Is that you?”
    â€œIt is, and I believe that’s my stash,” said Jack in a firm but friendly way. “I’d like it back if you please.”
    Chandler shook his head. “Finders keepers,” he said. “That’s the rule here. But I’d be glad to roll some up for you.”
    And so he did. His twists were almost as tight as Jack’s.
    â€œAnybody got a match?” asked Chandler, passing the cigs around. “Tobacco and matches are hard to find here.”
    Jack pulled a kitchen match from the pocket of his jumpsuit. “Here’s hoping,” he said, “that strike-anywhere means works-in-both-worlds .”
    Turned out it does.
    We all had a smoke while Jack and Chandler caught up on past events. “Finding out there’s only this one extra universe threw me into a tailspin,” said Chandler. “I was ready to quit being a professor. For some insane reason, I started moonlighting at KFC.”
    â€œThat explains the weird duds,” whispered Amara.
    â€œWorkers at KFC don’t dress like Colonel Sanders,” whispered Darly.
    â€œHave you ever looked in the kitchen?” hissed Amara.
    â€œTalk louder!” I snapped. “But be quiet.” I wanted to